


To Love And Live With A Hero - Steve/Reader

by BridgeToTheSky



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Are you all happy????, Bittersweet, Comedy, F/M, Fluff, Good ol' Steve romance, Love, Moving in with supersoldier boyfriends, Now I'm just like all of YOU, Romance, Smut, Smut eventually I'm sure it's me guys come on, This is straight out of Everwood I swear to god, i'm a monster, oh god the fluff, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4172787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BridgeToTheSky/pseuds/BridgeToTheSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You live with Steve Rogers, and that means many things. </p><p>Laughter, pain, comfort, fear, silliness, confidentiality. </p><p>Loneliness? Never. Love? Always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're Not Driving. I'll Drive For You.

Steve Rogers. Supersoldier. Captain America. 

 

Worst. Driver. Ever.

 

How had you not realized sooner? Granted, the first couple of weeks were spent relatively car-less; if you were snugged inside, enjoying the nearness of each other’s company, you were taking refreshing walks. Enjoying the little time the world was not being thrown into absolute chaos (and, being the beauty he was, every once and while Steve stopped a hoodlum of some sort and restored very much needed order).

 

You had moved in with Steve only weeks before present time, and he was glad of it (your first clue should been how he never got a car to pick you up on dates; it was either motorcycle or nothing at all); living alone in a strange world he was only beginning to adjust to was lonely business. Achingly lonely. And to have someone close to hold, complain to, come home to, was something Steve knew he wanted — and needed. 

 

But, of course, you had to pick up on this on your own, and you did a good job of it; he never would have told you himself. Out of shame, and out of old-timey gentlemanly-ness he still exhibited (you don’t just ask dames to move in with you; you need to be married first! Heathens …) 

 

But the moment you had suggested it, he had perked up and rightly accepted (”I mean — if you want to, of course. If you really wanted to.”).

 

The first sight of his apartment had left you awash with sadness; leftover takeout riddling the fridge and the coffee table; printed technological guides scattered hither and thither; the bedroom door ajar and showing evidence of a neatly made bed and, once you had gone through the door, a stale smell indicating how little slept-in it was; T.V off and curtains draped over the window, blankets thrown on the couch. 

 

Dark, desolate, alone. 

 

_ Oh, Steve _ …  You had almost said. You had almost turned to him and met his sad eyes with your own, but you only smiled. 

 

“Home sweet home.” 

 

You loved him as fervently and as adamantly as you had ever loved anyone — family, friends … — and, frankly, you were sure those that didn’t love Steve Rogers had a couple of screws loose and probably killed puppies in their spare time because  _ how? _

 

But you just had to break it to him that every time managed to find himself behind the wheel it brought you closer and closer to a stress-induced coma. You loved him  _ but it had to stop. _

 

So … 

 

“No, Steve,” you said, moving to block the driver’s seat door. 

 

Steve smiled at you, confused. “What are you up to?” 

 

“I … I just can’t let you drive anymore, Steve, I’m sorry.” 

 

A chuckle, and Steve crossed him arms, his smile indicating he found you endearing. “What do you mean?” 

 

“Steve, you’re a horrible driver, I can’t get in with you if you’re going to be driving us to dinner.” 

 

Steve blinked, surprised still. “I can get better, I promise.” 

 

“Disasters only need happen _once,_ Steve. I don’t see anyone trying to recreate the _Titanic_ , do you?” 

 

Steve rolled his eyes, the smile reclaiming his lips. “You’re exaggerating.” 

 

“Maybe, but the answer’s still no.” 

 

Steve waited for a second, before throwing up his hands and making his way to the passenger’s seat. “Fine, you drive then.” He submitted, throwing you the keys.

 

***

 

“You’re mad.” 

 

“No, I’m not.” 

 

“Yes, you are. I can tell you’re mad just by looking at your face.” 

 

“I’m not mad! You asking me if I’m mad is making me mad!” 

 

“So you are mad?” 

 

Steve was more than Steve he was Captain, and that meant that all the heavy-lifting he left for himself and himself only to do. 

 

Steve sighed, and you kept your eye on him from the kitchen as you dropped your spoon in your bowl of Cocoa Puffs.

 

“Did I offend you by saying you’re a bad driver?” 

 

“No,” Steve said, turning away. “You didn’t.” 

 

He was also the worst liar. But from the lovely, noble supersoldier, this was a such a good thing. Oh, one day you will be able to get mad at him. You _will._

 

“I’m sorry, Steve,” you said, bringing your bowl to the coffee table and landing besides Steve.

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, it’s me,” Steve said, looking to the floor as you brought hands to rub his broad shoulders. “It’s just … a boyfriend should be able to drive his girl around.” 

 

You take it back; maybe you’ll never be able to get mad at him. 

 

“Oh, Steve,” you said, bringing a finger to trace Steve’s jaw. “I know that you feel like you have to do that for me, but you don’t. You do everything, Steve. It’s okay. Let me drive you. I want to. Let me.” 

 

Steve’s eyes were sad on you. “But —” 

 

“Steve, it would actually make me happier to drive you than for you to drive me everywhere.”

 

Steve was quiet as you leaned forward and grabbed the keys, swinging them in his face. 

 

“And there’s a hook for these, my good sir,” you said, before getting up from the couch. “You putting them on the hook would also make me happy. Just sayin’.” 

 

Steve grinned before following you out the door, bowls of cereal be damned.

 

***

“You know,” Steve said, squeezing your hand, enjoying the sight of the sun melting over the horizon, turning the skies and the light that it cast to a beautiful orange-pink. “This is nice.” 

 

“I was right and you weren’t,” you said, “what else is new?” 

 

You giggled as Steve fake-glared at you. 

 

“I be modest and that’s what I get? Sass?” 

 

“You do good because it’s good, remember?” 

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” 

 

Another giggle, followed by the supersoldier’s much deeper chuckle, and you kept driving. Hands together, and never parting. 

 

Finally, a day where everything — the world, the galaxies above that the two of you couldn’t see, and beyond that and beyond that — stood perfectly still. 

 

_Should do that more often_ , you thought. 


	2. It's Only Quiet If You Whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn’t want to talk to him (yes, you did, but you wanted him to start it), you didn’t even want to see him or make note of his presence (you wanted him to hold you, and tell you he was sorry), but the universe was so keen on making you realize how non-omnipotent you were, and decisions like that were forever out of your reign.

Your throat ached, was sore with your suppressed sobs as your hand clenched itself under the pillows. You squeezed your eyes, disgusted with the tears that fell as result.

 

 _Oh, shut up and go to sleep,_ You hiss to yourself, but the harsh words do nothing but aggravate your condition, worsening your feelings.

 

Outside, you can hear Steve’s feet, working against the tiled floor of the kitchen. You knew it was him, as it could be no one else, and it was easy to trace his movements; it was otherwise silent, and there hadn’t been a significant sound for at least two hours.

 

You were sure if you twisted over, you would be able to see some form of shadow underneath the door, filtering in and out of sight, but you didn’t move. You hadn’t moved; you had been nearly a statue, the only activity happening in your mind, as you wished more than anything for sleep to come and claim you.

 

But it _wouldn’t_ claim you, not like this, not while you were still an emotional mess, not while things remained unsettled and at the edge of the surface, the surface of tension.

 

Thump. Thump. Thump. Closer than ever. Your heart quickened.

 

Your eyes darted to the side where the drawer was. Within was a spare gun atop folded clothes, and on top of it, the nightstand, with a picture of Steve and you, faces close and making the most ridiculous faces imaginable against a coastal backdrop at sunset.

 

Have two objects ever been so incongruous?

 

The doorknob sounded in its twisting. The door creaked open. You relaxed, pretending to be in sleep against your wet spots where the tears had soaked through.

 

You didn’t want to talk to him (yes, you did, but you wanted him to start it), you didn’t even want to see him or make note of his presence (you wanted him to hold you, and tell you he was _sorry_ ), but the universe was so keen on making you realize how non-omnipotent you were, and decisions like that were forever out of your reign.

 

You could hear Steve’s footsteps against carpet, and then the covers were peeled off (you nearly shook as a reaction) slowly. Pressuring on the mattress, then more pressure, and you could faintly feel Steve’s pajamas leg against your own, and you wanted to snatch it away in a fit of childish stubbornness.

 

You felt watched, and knew that you were; you knew that if you opened your eyes and looked over your shoulder, Steve would be there, elbow against the pillow, watching you not with peaceful adoration like normal but with stress, with guilt. You stayed where you were, hoping that all this acting would soon become reality and sleep would come to you, making you feel less like an idiot baby (see? I was always asleep!), but the anticipation of Steve’s next move kept you on edge, too alert to dose.

 

Finally, you felt pressure remove itself from the bed, and you knew Steve had gone. You heard a door shut, and your heart depleted.

 

***

 

Steve **_never_ ** touched your things.

 

Even when push came to shove and he had to find something and came across an item of yours, he was tender. The things you had told him about your past, how people had touched and stolen your things and had left you empty, had made him softer about your possessions. He’d taken note of what it meant to you to have _your_ things be _your_ things.

 

Well, until —

 

Steve ripped your bag from your hands, causing you to gasp, open-mouthed by the ferocity of his grab. The force had chipped off a bit of your nail polish, leaving the nail bare, and your hands empty. You stared into Steve’s back as he threw your bag to the couch. He turned back to you, narrowed, **_icy_ ** — not baby blue and lovely but dangerous — on you.

 

You fished for words, but none would come. You closed your eyes, took a breath, and murmured, “You’re being a dictator, Steve. I’m not doing anything wrong.”

 

“You’d rather be at the Drama Center than with me. Admit it.”

 

“I’m not admitting that —”

 

“Because I’m right?” Steve said, words rough against the air.

 

“Because you’re _wrong!_ ” You exclaimed. “I’m not apologizing for having a life outside of you, Steve! I’m not apologizing for wanting to do things and staying longer than I should have —”

 

“Three and a half hours!” Steve roared, springing into motion. He was in your face now, body blocking your path, eyes menacing. “You were gone for **_three and a half hours_ ** longer than you said you would, and you didn’t even _think_ to call me! With Hydra and Loki and God knows what else running around out there and us dating and you didn’t even think about my feelings!”

 

Again, no words. This Steve was so new to you.

 

“Steve, I —”

 

“I thought you were … that you …”

 

You reached out, inching toward your lover —

 

Steve jerked away from your touch, causing you to jump, shocked for the umpteenth time that night.

 

“Just …” Steve trailed, back to you. “Just leave me. Just …”

 

“I don’t want to leave,” You said quietly, mouse-like, eyes stinging. Suddenly the thought of being denied Steve was too much — you needed to touch him, needed …

 

Steve turned to you at last, eyebrow raised. “Really? You don't?”

 

You nodded, desperate.

 

Steve turned away from you again. “That’s new for you.”

 

Cold. Had you ever received such a blatant _Fuck Off_ in your life?

 

Steve shoved your bag to the side and you whimpered, slipping away from the living room and scouting for the closest room with a door to separate the two of you.

 

The bedroom. You shut the door and climbed into the sheets, wishing you could crawl out of your flesh and be unseen forever.

 

***

 

You submitted yourself to much needed sobs, more tears to re-wet the previous spots against the pillows.

 

You were selfish. Selfish, gross, and no amount of abuse you subjected yourself to would suffice.

 

And you had wanted Steve to apologize? For what? Loving you? Worrying? Losing it when you couldn’t see what you had done to his emotions? What was his crime? Three hours _was_ a long time to not call — and it was a dangerous time to be Steve Rogers’s girlfriend, too dangerous of a time to leave him hanging, waiting for signs of your safety.

 

If those signs would come at all.

 

And that was the gravity of what you had put him through — oh, what if he had called and you weren’t there? What would have thought then? That someone had … had _taken_ you, dragged you away. That you were moments from being …

 

The next sob you gave was for Steve, for your guilt.

 

The door opened again, but this time you kept your eyes open, forgetting about your little game. You were still too ashamed to look, however, and kept still.

 

Steve returned to bed, and his hand came to … to smooth your arm, and … and a kiss on your forehead, then your cheek, both so warm, warding off the cold of the room.

 

Then something on your cheek — a warm towel, heated from the dryer, meant to wipe your tears —

 

“(Y/N) …”

 

Opposite effect; you burst into tears as Steve scoped you into his muscular arms, the force of your sobs against his ribs, inconsolable.

 

“It’s okay …” Steve whispered, his hold the only thing keeping you in tact. “I’m sorry, it’s okay …”

 

Steve rocked you, smoothing your hair. “I scared you …”

 

You nodded into his chest, still unable to do anything but choke into his shirt.

 

“You scared me, too … I’m sorry, (Y/N), I’m so sorry …”

 

His embrace didn’t lessen, even moments later. You’d gone quiet, relaxed by the sounds of Steve’s heartbeat against your ear, against the warmth of his clothes, his arms.

 

A hiding place.

 

“I love you,” You breathed at last, throat raw. “I love you, and I promise, I’ll do better by you, I promise I won't — I'm so sorry, Steve, I -”

 

Steve released your body in favor of your neck, forcing your head to turn upward and meeting your lips with his own.

 

"I know," he said. "And I forgive you ..."

 

Soft, firm, it brought you back to life, this kiss. Your hands flew to Steve’s hair, smoothing through it.

 

Steve sunk you down to the mattress. One of his hands left your neck to explore your back. You arched, clothed breasts meeting his firm chest. His hand met the dip of your back and lifted you, placing you higher against the bed — with one hand, only one, he had moved your entire body, completely under his control.

 

You hummed into Steve’s lips, reveling in their texture — so perfect and rosy, rubbing against yours just right. You curled your leg up against Steve’s, pushing him farther into you, feeling the warmth of him that had previously been robbed from you.

 

One of Steve’s hands left you, and a second later you heard ruffling, and he released your lips, showing you a orange card.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said.

 

You took it from him — it was your Drama Center card.

 

You looked up at him.

 

“I shouldn’t have,” Steve’s eyes trailed your lips, obviously still very much wanting to taste them for himself, “tried to take it away from you. It’s your life. I have to respect that.”

 

You brushed a hand against his face, feeling the high of his cheek. “I’ll call.”

 

Steve smiled. “Thank you, but you don’t have to —”

 

You reached up to capture his lips again, pulling back slowly. “Yeah, I do.”

 

Steve smiled wider still, pulling down to your level to seal his lips over yours. “Yeah,” he said in between the kiss. “You do.”


	3. Aware Of All The Interesting And Amazing Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the beginning of your relationship with Captain America begins with a flirty exchange of letters and I don't think this series can get any cuter than it actually is. Watch me be wrong in an hour.

The was funny about time was now what it contained but how it unraveled. Whoever was in control of all this — and you didn’t want to pursue that kind of argument any time soon — would probably get a kick out of how your story line and Captain America’s became one.

 

Because months ago, borderline a year now, the two of you had been aware of each other in vastly different ways. Your way? Through the news, _MSNBC_ and _CNN_ , social media sites and gossip, Huffington Post and Washington , _Mirror.co_ and even ordinary paper newspapers when you were enjoying morning’s cappuccino in a close cafe in Manhattan and were feeling old school. You know, the normal way a person learned about spectacular events.

 

And spectacular people.

 

After the alien attack on New York in question, the news was unstoppable; a plethora of stories — false and true and some with falsity in them and some with truth in them and some with everything and all between and sooner or later it became easier just to not get involved because, dear lord, would people do anything to get their fifteen minutes of fame — and theories, some news (and it was the kind of news that let you _know_ there was more, and that whoever controlled the ‘more’ aspect was definitely not telling or definitely not allowed to) about Captain America, the world’s first superhero and every-man, thawed from decade-old ice and brought back to life came to the surface.

 

Madness, chaos, and too many new, inane things to focus on, you shut yourself off to all of it.

 

At first, things were informative, then it all went very, very wrong. The focus had begun to be placed on Steve’s, ahem, other attributes. Like the way his suit strained against his firm muscles, or how charmingly geeky his smiles were, or … or just how plain desirable he was.

 

Gossip, gossip, superficiality.

 

You shut yourself away from it when it all became too much, sure you would be able to continue on with your business.

 

Ironically, madness found you. Or, in more accurate terms, he found you.

 

***

 

Because if you had watched closer at your performances, if you had seen the crowd for the individuals they were and not just as a single, intimidating entity that would either cheer you on or throw rotten tomatoes at your feet, you would have noticed that there was a recurring figure in the seats.

 

Plain shirt, beige jeans, blue shirt.

 

The opening of Hamlet and your performance as Ophelia? — Plain shirt, beige jeans, blue shirt.

 

 _My Girl, Your Girl, Everyone’s Girl?_ — Plain shirt, beige jeans, blue shirt.

 

 _The Wiz?_ — Plain shirt, beige jeans, blue shirt.

 

Something about this particular theater was drawing in the same shielded figure, who clapped harder than most at every curtain call, who watched with more ferocity than most, who followed your movements across stage more passionately than most, who was able to see you more than most, regardless of whatever ridiculous garb you were wrapped in, but you never noticed, focusing too hard on being not-terrible.

 

You really should have noticed sooner.

 

That Captain America was watching you.

 

***

 

May 1st, an envelope under your door that could’ve gone one of two ways: very creepy, or very heartwarming.

 

A little of both, actually, but looking back? It was probably just Steve’s nerves.

 

You had yourself an admirer.

 

You would have been more anxious, but the envelope’s flap was taped down with a heart sticker. Not very threatening. You ripped it open with a butter knife.

 

_Great show. You looked beautiful. Can’t wait for the next one._

 

No signature, no identification. Curt and to the point.

 

… nervous?

 

It almost made you laugh; it just ended, just like that.

 

_You’re beautiful k bye._

 

Basically.

 

At that thought, you did laugh; basically.

 

***

 

And they kept coming, one after another, at the exact time, at the end of every show. You had begun to count — at eight o’ clock, if you were in and hadn’t fallen asleep to some drawling television show, there an envelope would be, a short message of praise and adoration.

 

Apparently, the prospect of, you know, simply knocking on your door and introducing themselves was out of the question.

 

Sooner or later, you had begun to write your own messages, and left them outside your door around the time they came by. Your heart rate would climb when you could hear hard footsteps outside your front door — ah, judging from the aggressive steps, a man, not a woman admirer? — and you would wait for the envelope to slip by.

 

When the footsteps were long gone, you would open the door and see that your note been taken. You would giggle, invigorated by this strange tradition the two of you had created, this surreal type of flirting, and go to open your new envelope.

 

_Very funny. No, I don’t just stalk anyone. And I don’t think anyone has prettier legs than you._

 

And then that next Friday …

 

_I’m a blond. You sing like an angel. They don’t make ‘em like you anymore._

 

_I’m a Cancer, apparently. I wanted to punch that other actor guy out of the way and kiss you myself._

 

He was talking about Zachary … You snorted. _Actor guy._ You snorted louder.

 

Yeah, you wished it was him instead, too.

 

You kept them all, and you couldn’t help but love the praise, the warm reception, without any of the negative. It wasn’t professional, and if you were a better performer, you’d demand both, but you weren’t. You were giddy.

 

Nights, you let your admirer infiltrate your thoughts, and wondered if he was thinking of you, too. Wondered what he did at that time of day; was he already in bed? Did he read? What did he read? Did he watch TV? What did he like to eat? Would you be able to cook it? Learn to cook it, even, if you didn’t?

 

So many questions, and no way to fish out the answers. You would twist yourself in bed, left and right and left and right, and no sleep would be in reach.

 

Then, after you had gathered quite a collection, one came:

 

_I want to meet you. Where?_

 

***

 

An incredibly inconspicuous coffeehouse in Manhattan, unseen, unheard.

 

_I’ll be in the blue shirt._

 

You were sat by the window, a jolt traveling through you every time someone outside walked by, having potential to be The One. You hadn’t touched your coffee, only cupped it around your hands to prevent them from feeling colder than they already were. It wasn’t real cold, and you knew that; it was artificial cold, nervous cold, and in that moment you began to comprehend your life — and then it dawned on you.

 

Things like this didn’t happen to your life. This was John Hughes, Sixteen Candles stuff. This was Nicholas Sparks romance — how could you have been so foolish? You were an _actress_ , for god’s sakes! You had played out these lives in characters, where their lives were only plausible on the stage, and even then …

 

This was a trick. The realization fell in your stomach. You were paralyzed — you should have realized days ago, weeks, your past life should have come to you in a dream and said something along the lines of:

 

_You’ve been an idiot for too long. I think it’s time to stop._

 

One of your Theater partners actually got rotten tomatoes thrown at her once. Oh, _god_ , what if it was the same guy? What if he was some cruel troll that went around getting young actresses’ hopes up?

 

You leaned back in your chair, ready to sob. And you didn’t even care about all the other people around to see your tragic collapse of sanity.

 

And you hadn’t even had any of your coffee.

 

And in hindsight, the tragedy running through your head kept you from seeing Steve pass on the sidewalk and let himself in with a accompanying jingle of the shop’s doorbell.

 

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

 

...

 

The softest, gentlest of voices. Masculine and inquisitive and … and a little sexy. Perhaps it would have sounded sexier if you hadn’t been near sobs, but that remained to be seen.

 

You rose your head that had previously been buried in your palms, and saw him.

 

… Blond, refined and beautiful with perfect teeth barred in a gorgeous albeit shy smile and dazzling blue eyes that turned concerned by your state of being.

 

“Oh, god, is there something wrong?”

 

…

 

…

 

Steve Rogers.

 

Captain America.

 

Avenger.

 

Co-savior of New York.

 

…

 

…

 

… Did you die?

 

B— Because the possibility of that proved to be much more plausible than anything that had been happening to you over the last couple of days. Did you trip in your slippers during your role as Cinderella and tumble to your death? Are you buried in an insignificant cemetery right now? Relatives crying or bickering over your grave as you “spoke?”

 

“Um,” Steve managed while you remained in your stupor. “Ma’am? Are you all right? Should I … do you want me to call someone for you?”

 

It was incredibly hard to blink, but you managed it, and when Steve — _Steve,_ Captain America Steve not sweaty, pervy neighbor from when you were eighteen Steve or kleptomaniac loved-giving-people-the-bird Steve from your ninth grade History class Steve. _Steve_ — didn’t disappear, proving your dead theory correct, you … you actually began to play along with, “He — Hello. No, no, I — I’m fine. I think my fingers … might have soaked up all the heat from my coffee, though.”

 

Steve perked. “Do you want me to buy you another?”

 

Oh. God. Coffee offerings.

 

FROM **_CAPTAIN AMERICA_**

 

 _Note to self, get that on a fucking shirt. Soon. Someone probably has something like that on_ Etsy _. There will no sleep until you get a shirt. No excuses._

“No — No, I just — I — _God,”_ You tried collecting yourself, placing a hand on your chest as Steve slid into the booth opposite of you. “I’m just a little overwhelmed right now. You don’t need to get me anything.”

 

He chuckled. “Uh, actually, I think I should. It’s only polite after making someone … anxious.”

 

He was being nice. _Anxious_ was synonymous with “hyperventilate like a fourteen-year-old One Direction fangirl” but he was so sweet to find an alternative.

 

“I’ll buy some for us both,” he said with a confident smile. “Then we can talk.”

 

***

 

If by _talking,_ he meant stare at each other like a couple of wet dogs, then yes, talking was good.

 

He seemed just as content to just … _look_ at you. His eyes were such startling sets of warm blue, not a deep kind, or an icy kind, a warm, relaxing kind. Like the kind of blue from the softest parts of the sky, or the water you used to place your feet in at the beach.

 

“I can’t believe I’m meeting you,” You said.

 

“I was about to say the same,” Steve replied, and when your brows furrowed he continued with, “Let’s just say I’ve … seen a lot of your things. You’re incredible.”

 

The compliment caught you off guard, and it settled over you before a smile broke out over your face. “Thanks,” you replied sheepishly. “I try to, um, not be … you know … awful or anything.”

 

Steve shrugged, and you noticed the way his nose wrinkled when he did so, the cheeky smile that followed “I don’t think you could be awful at anything.”

 

You snorted, trying to refrain from what seemed to be inevitable swooning. “You don’t know me well enough, then; In fact, I’m _so_ awful at so many things that the only thing I excel at is pretending to be other people.”

 

Steve reached for you, and your heart thumped dramatically in your chest at the contact — his fingers came over your knuckles, and you did not have to feel the full callousness of his hand to know its strength.

 

“Not fair,” he said. “Let me get to know you and I’ll prove you’re the best character you could ever be.”

 

You blinked. Furiously, for seconds afterward. You mentally rewound his sentence in your head, hearing it but not quite _believing_ —

 

Give me one more moment and I’ll vomit your gift of a cup of coffee on you.

 

Steve noticed your stunned silence, and pulled away, unsure. “Sorry,” he said, “was that too much?”

 

_Too much or too little?_

 

You threw your hand up. “No, I, uh, I just …” You blew a half-assed raspberry in an effort to stop the word-vomit. “That was just … the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. It’s natural I wouldn’t know how to reply.”

 

He looked relieved at this. “And it was my first attempt at flirting in a long … well, ever.” He nodded, smiling at you, his eyes glued to your own. “I’m glad I did such a good job.”

 

“And with no practice, either?” You played along. “You really are a wonder.”

 

And he asked you to take a walk with him, and there was no way in this universe or the next or the next that you wouldn’t, and when you threw you coffee out you took his hand for the first time and when you stepped out of the cafe and into the streets of Manhattan you could hardly recall a time other than the Stage when you felt this utterly and unequivocally alive.

 

_You really are a wonder._

 

And you didn’t take it back — would never take it back — because you were right.

 

***

 

And you’d never know how many things he had seen you in before making a move on you, would never know how many things he had dropped just to see you, how long he had, in fact, been watching you.

 

Maybe when you truly down, he’d divulge it to you. Maybe, one day, when the hilariousness of it and the charm became too much for him to withhold and he’d reveal it over a warm breakfast you made him. Maybe on a rainy day when nothing was on T.V.

 

Maybe never, maybe seconds from now, when you woke up snug in your Etsy shirt with his emblem on it and instinctively left your pillow in search and preference of his arms.

 

He just knew one thing; whatever the first time was (he couldn’t remember) he was just glad the first time existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this chapter took AGES, and I'm really sorry because I get spurts of inspiration and no plan ahead of me. 
> 
> I don't know if our Steve would be THIS smooth, but we can certainly be sure he'd be the courteous and I, erm, know he's not the most popular character right now in either the comic book fandom or the MCU one apparently since Civil War came out (DON'T TELL ME I HAVEN'T SEEN THE MOVIE I DON'T WANNA KNOW) but hell I love my Steve and that's how it's gonna stay. 
> 
> And if anyone wanted to know or was at curious (no one is I just wanna talk more) I listen to a LOT of Daughter and ambient music when writing Romantic!Marvel and, well, Marvel in general but especially Fluffy/Romantic!Marvel fics.


End file.
